The Becoming of Spring

After this deep breath,
I turn back on the trail
To jog toward the sun—
Boisterous while white clouds
Serve as cotton swabs sprawled
On that celeste counter
We call the sky.

Women push strollers
And cyclists zip by,
Fellow congregants
On this trail whose eyes
Probably sting (like mine)
From baptismal sweat.

The mountains behind me
Now serve as waves
From an imaginary tsunami.
Meanwhile, nearby patches
Raise tiny green arms
And maple trees burst
Like purple fireworks.

My steps slow,
And my jog nears its end—
A sign the drop to cool
My tongue across
This chasm has dried.